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Potatoes



Potatoes rotate slowly through the sky:

giant, earthen barges,

majestic spuds, gently turning, shedding dirt

silently, like space stations

or clouds, brown and organic

and when the atmosphere gets too potatoey


it rains tater tots


that stupid people immediately spit out

after catching them in their mouths

because they’re too hot,

fresh from the sky.


Sometimes it lightnings French fries


and hails twice-baked potatoes

shooting through our windows like brimstone

breaking apart along the shards of glass

still sticking out of the sills


streaking everything in the living room

with scalding cheese


and the hot, white fluff of the inner-potato.


Then one afternoon you look up

and the whole sky has gone this totally au gratin

hue, as the wind dies down

and the bottom drops out

of a cumulonimbus

like a fortress of carbs


and it curly-fries tornadoes


peeling back the landscape’s skin, flinging

livestock skyward, and around


like potato salad in a blender

homelessing townsfolk, shredding

belongings, threading telephone

poles through classrooms like toothpicks

through steamed new potatoes


turning trailer parks to hashbrowns

flattening lakeside mansions to latke


reducing the courthouse to a pulverized

pinch of chips and salt in the bottom

corner of the crinkly bag of the city.


Then later that night, the wind dies down

again, and the full moon shines


down on the rubble like an eerily single

scalloped potato,


lonesome

for a whole casserole of others

set against the high, giant darkness


with starch like stars


and you feel like you’re standing

inside the giant, invisible pomme de terre

that is the clear night sky.


Then one day you wake up

and walk outside

and the whole world is covered in a layer

of mashed potatoes


and everything is quiet and bright


the sunlight glowing on it like butter


but soon that layer will melt.

Even now it has begun

revealing a whole


season’s worth of debris beneath

the snow, I mean mashed potatoes


as all the streams of meltwater trickle

all throughout the town.


It’s Spring.







Poem



The imagination

like a brain-attic


floats where one

cannot


see—only images

fallen from it.


Heavens.